Mistakes
by CC.V.RG
Summary: Mycroft Holmes knew that he had made a mistake. A big one. But he just did not know how to fix it. The aftermath of Reichenbach, in Mycroft's POV. Drabble. No slash, no pairings. Sherlock and Mycroft brotherly love. For the Save Undershaw, Art of Deduction contest on tumblr! :


**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor claim to own, any recognizable characters or storylines. The modern Sherlock Holmes TV show belongs to the BBC, Gatiss, and Moffatt (and soon to be CBS…grr…goddammit, still pissed about that). And the original Sherlock Holmes stories belong to the revered and amazing Arthur Conan Doyle. *bows down***

**So, hello everybody! This is my first ever Sherlock story! *le gasp* I know, right! Amazing that I've haven't gotten around to this before…But whatever! This piece is Mycroft centered, and it takes place right around the time after Sherlock jumps in the Reichenbach Fall. :'( Oh, and in this version of my canon, Mycroft doesn't know that Sherlock's alive until a few months after he supposedly "dies."**

**Oh, and one last note: I'm writing this for the tumblr Save Undershaw: Art of Deduction contest! :) It's a fan-based project to raise money for the Save Undershaw Project (featuring Mark Gatiss, or so I've heard). Hopefully, I'll get picked! *crosses fingers* But anyway, here are the two links you can use, in case anyone else wants to join. They're accepting fanfics, character profiles, and art! Basically anything you can put in a book! :) But hurry, the deadline is March 11th****, 2012. So get started people! (Just remove the spaces from the links below!).**

**http : / / aguidetodeduction . tumblr . com / saveundershawproject**

**http : / / aguidetodeduction . tumblr . com / post / 17104271503 / save-undershaw-house-submissions-needed**

**Alright, here we go! Onto the story! =D**

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes knew he had screwed up.<p>

Normally, the distinguished politician would never use language to crass, so volatile. But this was a special case, because he knew that it was true.

The infallible, stoic, calm, cool and collected Mycroft Holmes had made a mistake. He had played the game, and he had lost. Terribly.

It disturbed him greatly. Mostly due to the fact that the price of his foolishness was his little brother's reputation…his dignity…and his life.

Jim Moriarty had been an interesting character from the start. Interesting…but never really dangerous. Not at first. No, that came after. After Sherlock and Doctor Watson's first encounter with the consulting criminal. The pool incident had _scared_Mycroft. More than he cared to admit. He made sure to move cautiously against this new, psychotic enemy.

Sherlock's approach had less…tact.

It began with the younger Holmes falling in love with Moriarty's lead puppet. Yes, Mycroft had no doubt that Sherlock had fallen in love with Irene Adler. And maybe in some twisted way, she loved him back: beneath all the lies, hatred, and need to manipulate that was set in her conscience. But Irene had not been cautious enough either, and now look where she was: six feet under the dark desert sands, somewhere in the Middle East. Just another nameless body.

No, Mycroft thinks. Perhaps it began before that, before even Irene Adler came into his brother's life. Perhaps it was _John_.

Yes, John Watson. That is it: Doctor John Watson is where it all began.

That memorable day when Mycroft had cleverly set up John's old college friend on that bench in Hyde Park. His plan had been without flaw: the army doctor and consulting detective would meet, arrange a deal, and become friends and companions for life. During which the good doctor would make sure Sherlock never strayed off the sane and sober path again. It had all been so easy…the world had finally been balanced, perfect, safe.

Until a nearly-dead cabbie had shouted out a name with his dying breath through pale, blood-splattered lips. _Moriarty._

That was when Mycroft's life began slowly, but surely, unraveling.

Moriarty had teased—used, for pity's sake—Sherlock for months before the encounter at the pool had happened. Mycroft had known it was both driving his brother mad, and exciting him to the point of ecstasy. But Moriarty was just another challenge to Sherlock: another criminal, another psychopath, another warlord, another _game_. Someone who couldn't truly hurt him, right? It was what they had both believed. Both foolishly believed…

But Jim Moriarty had quickly proven himself to be quite the threat to the Holmes' previously balanced world: starting with the confrontation in the pool house, and continuing in full force with his interference in Mycroft's beautifully orchestrated plane crash.

Now _that_…that was something that had unnerved him. Mycroft would swear before God himself that this was not at all the case, but the plain truth was that that particular foil by Moriarty made him want to crawl into a ball and die: his shame was that profound. Months of planning, day after day of conspiring in secret, with no sleep or sustenance besides cheap coffee, all of it…thwarted by a villain with the brain of a bored child.

_How could I have fallen so far?_ He had asked himself despairingly. _How could I have lost to this—this __fool__?_It all seemed so impossible, even now. But Mycroft Holmes was no stranger to failure, contrary to popular belief. Mycroft Holmes did not, in fact, always get what he wanted, especially when it came to his job. But this was truly one of the first times Mycroft Holmes had ever felt…helpless. Weak. As if Moriarty could get past every one of his defenses and Mycroft couldn't even lift a finger to stop it. And in the end, that was indeed what had happened.

Mycroft had had to stand by, completely helpless, as his brother's reputation, his entire life, was torn apart by a madman the people suddenly believed.

_But that isn't quite true, is it, Mycroft?_ He asks himself bitterly, sitting coldly in a silent room in a gentleman's club. _Not completely helpless, were you? After all, you were the one who gave Moriarty the information he needed to destroy Sherlock. After all, Mycroft, this is all your fault._

Yes, Mycroft knew who was to blame for his brother's suicide: he did not need a grief-stricken Doctor Watson to tell him that. Of course it was his fault. Sherlock, his little brother, the only person he had ever truly cared about, was dead because of him. Because he had put his job before his family and his friends.

And look where they had all ended up. Sherlock dead, John depressed and avoiding him like the plague, D.I. Lestrade guilt-ridden, Mrs. Hudson crying constantly, and Mycroft…Mycroft himself hadn't done much of anything in an entire month.

The Prime Minister had "graciously" granted him a leave of absence, for as long as he needed (_"Really, this country can run itself for a few weeks without you, Holmes!"_). But it really had been more of a curse than a blessing. There was now nothing to occupy his mind, nothing to distract him. Now, all he could do was sit in his empty mansion—CCTV cameras glaringly blank—and attend Diogenes Club Meetings which didn't fascinate him anymore in the slightest. Everything was so…dull without Sherlock and his loyal doctor stirring up trouble for him. Mycroft had never truly realized how much of his time was spent with those two men. How much a part of his life they both had become.

And as a result, Mycroft's existence had become depressingly empty and grey: filled with a blur of strangled emotions like despair, anger, anguish, and no small amount of desperation. He found himself wondering daily what could've happened if he had not given Moriarty that information about Sherlock. Would Moriarty have been taken into custody and stayedin custody, instead of being shot in the head on a rooftop? Would his empire have crumbled? Would Sherlock be alive? Or would the outcome just be the same? Had Mycroft's folly really made all the difference?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose pensively, before standing up and leaving the club. Old, glazed eyes of ancient men followed him listlessly as he left, but they did not do anything to stop him. Lately, those of the Diogenes had looked upon him with scowls and disdain, thinking him too emotional to be in their presence. _So be it,_ Mycroft thought with a now familiar bitterness. _This club is for gentlemen, after all, and I am far from being a __man__, let alone a gentle one._

And so he returned to his empty house: filled with fury, yet ever so empty. And with one question still burning in his mind: _What am I going to do now?_ And that was the problem, wasn't it? What washe going to do? And this plagued his mind for a long time.

But you see, Mycroft Holmes knew that he had screwed up. So when at last, a battered and broken Sherlock ends up on his doorstep just a few weeks later, there is nothing else he can do but pull his brother into a shocked embrace…and began the arduous task of fixing his mistakes.

* * *

><p><strong>Word-Count: 1,230<strong>

**And so, that ends this drabble! I hope you enjoyed it! =D**

**~ CC.**


End file.
